


Appetite

by orphan_account



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Dom Hannibal, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Hannibal is Hannibal, Licking, Reader Insert, Reader-Insert, Reader-Interactive, Vaginal Fingering, i will never be able to apologize enough for writing this, i'm depraved, there are only like two cannibal jokes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-08
Updated: 2014-05-08
Packaged: 2018-01-24 01:32:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,444
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1586726
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I could just eat you up.”</p><p>He murmurs it softly against your cheek, and it's almost like you can hear it echo around inside your head, I could just eat you up eat you up eat you up eat you up, and you feel the stiff pressed fabric of his impeccable three-piece suit against your chest, and his rough hand is still cradling your neck and chin, and you can almost hear the beat of your heart thrumming against his long, graceful fingers, whose once gentle caress is turning quickly into a rough grasp around your collar.</p><p>(or the one in which you are hannibal's patient and you are very thirsty and he is very hungry)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Appetite

Dr. Lecter is talking to you, and you need to stop letting your mind wander. You’re paying a lot for therapy, not to fantasize about your therapist’s skin.

His skin looks hard, you think, like his face was carved out of marble. His paisley double Windsor-knotted tie stands out against his crisp blue shirt, buttoned all the way to the collar, and that tanned marble skin rises out of it, and you can’t help but think that you’d like to see him undone for once, see what it would take to make him disheveled and animalistic instead of stoic, calm, and put-together, as he always appears to be. But he’s your therapist; obviously, a relationship like that is out of the question. Way out of the question. So so so so far out of the question, you shouldn’t even be allowing yourself to contemplate it, really…

Suddenly you sense the silence of the large, comfortably furnished room, and realize that he just asked you a question and is waiting for a response. Jarred, you look into his eyes; his stare is fixed directly on you, a barely-detectable smirk turning up the corner of his mouth—his tongue darts out to lick at his lips, and you almost feel like he’s doing it on purpose, teasing you, trying to elicit a reaction from you, trying to push you, just as you wish you could do to him. “Well?” he rumbles, his accent sending an involuntary shiver down your spine. “How does that make you feel?”

Without warning, you find yourself out of your chair, standing beside it and feeling wrong-footed by both his question and your reaction to him. _Get it together, you don’t even know what the question was, you were too busy fantasizing about his hands around your waist, in your hair, around your neck, covering your mouth_ —your thoughts are cut off as something firm and solid collides with your forearm—the mahogany ladder leading to his lofted library—and you realize that, while lost in unfortunate thoughts, you’ve unknowingly walked several paces from your seat across from him. He’s still there, watching you, always watching you, staring at you with that invisible smile like he knows every secret you’ve ever had in your life. You watch, heart in your throat, as his eyes travel openly from your face down over your body, and you inhale sharply as you see him stand slowly from his chair and begin to walk towards you. He approaches your spot by the ladder like a predator approaches prey; you step back as he steps forward, until you find yourself cornered, back pressed up against the ladder as he advances on you, and you know with a sudden clarity that there is something dangerous about him—that he might hurt you. And yet, you find yourself unable to flee in fear, instead watching him advance with shaky breath, warmth blooming across your cheeks, revealing just how aroused you really are, and as he gets close you can see that he knows, knows exactly how turned on you are by him—how could he fail to notice the hitch in your breath, the flush spreading down your neck from your face, the way the delicate muscles of your throat contract, your chest heaving as you brace yourself against the wooden ladder at your back. He watches it all, feasts on the sight of you, finally exposed before him, fearful but not fleeing, afraid but enraptured, and now he’s towering directly over you. You watch, stunned, as his eyes flick down to your neck, then back up to your face, and your mind is screaming _run run run_ , but you feel the warm, rough expanse of his hand come to rest over your neck, your pulse fluttering beneath his touch. He slowly drags his hand upward until it cradles your face softly beneath your chin, and he leans in until his face is right over yours, hot breath on your face, and murmurs to you.

“I could just eat you up.”

He murmurs it softly against your cheek, and it's almost like you can hear it echo around inside your head, _I could just eat you up eat you up eat you up eat you up_ , and you feel the stiff pressed fabric of his impeccable three-piece suit against your chest, and his rough hand is still cradling your neck and chin, and you can almost hear the beat of your heart thrumming against his long, graceful fingers, whose once gentle caress is turning quickly into a rough grasp around your collar. Before you can react, he's all around you, pressing himself into every available space, filling the air around you, holding tight to your neck and you just manage to gasp his name around his grip when he finally brings his mouth down against yours, slow but hungry, quickly bringing his strong arms down along your sides, appraising your body simply with his touch, and finally pulling your legs up until you're being held against the mahogany ladder by the pressure of his hard frame against yours. You feel your body submitting to his touch, and you can’t help but admire the beauty of the parallel that the two of you make—his hardness to your softness. His hand is still around your throat, slowly working its way up under your chin, and you feel like a pinned insect writhing underneath him as he brings his long fingers around your face and leans down into you. You shudder and gasp involuntarily, like a wounded animal, as his mouth closes around your throat—and as his tongue begins lapping up against your pulse, you hear yourself whimpering, and his hungry mouth is eating up every vibration of your voice. As he plunges his tongue into the dip in your collarbone, he presses his hardness into you; you feel him against your hipbone until he aligns himself and quickly presses back down—now you can feel him pressing directly against your hot center, and you cry out at the sudden contact, squirming beneath him until you’ve maneuvered your hips away from his. A dark, low chuckle passes from his lips; he grips your hips hard and pulls you back into place. 

“You cannot tease me now,” he says, his accent thick and voice deep as he presses his hardness into you again. “I do not deal well with temptation.” Helpless before him, you can only watch as he slowly, deliberately drags his hand against your hip where he’s holding you down, and brushes his fingers along your hipbone and then moving lower, lower, lower—without warning, you feel him gently graze against the juncture between your legs. He slips a hand beneath your once-neat skirt, dragging his long fingers up against your inner thighs, back and forth over the smooth skin until you let out a moan of frustration at the closeness. 

“Is this,” he murmurs darkly into your neck, “not enough for you?” You can’t help a dry sob as he finally, blissfully, cups his hand over your heat—with the contact from his hand, you can feel how wet you are for him, and a deep flush alights your cheeks as he presses one of his long digits against your entrance, rubbing you in slow circles through the damp fabric of your panties. 

“Isn’t it beautiful,” he whispers as he continues to work his fingers against you, “the way your body prepares itself for me? Like an elegant meal…ready for me to consume.” On his last word, he abruptly pulls your dewy panties aside and pushes against your slick entrance, which gives way against him easily. You gasp and clutch at his hard chest as he sheathes his finger deep inside your velvety heat, and let out another pathetic sob as he pulls it back out. The cry turns to a gasp as you watch him bring the digit, soaked with your arousal, to his lips—you watch, enraptured, as he slips it into his mouth, staring directly at you all the while, and licks it clean. You feel yourself grow even wetter, if possible, watching the pleasure on his face as he tastes your essence. 

"You are delectable," he declares roughly when he's finished, bringing his hand back beneath your skirt. You can't resist pushing your hips forward to meet him as your hot wetness guides his finger back into you, but this time, it's two of his long digits instead of one. You mewl at the sensation, grinding yourself down onto his hand desperately, and he rewards you with his cunning, secretive, darkly sexy smile.

**Author's Note:**

> i'm really really really REALLY sorry  
> so sorry  
> this is not.  
> well.  
> um.  
> sorry


End file.
